En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Geranium

How can you stand it—looking at things?
For example, the geranium

out on the patio, the single pink
blossom in the sun? Or stand the sunlight
moving through it,

illuminating, holding the flower open like a high
clear note, an ecstatic
widening

which arrives, arrives. What
do you dowith it? While the shrubs and the lowest
overhanging leaves

lift slightly in the wind, the blossom

doesn't move. It's the object
of affection, and this is how
it hurts you:

by holding the note open—

Past the front of the apartment, traffic goes by:
one truck, then another

comes on, disappears. And I have

the blossom in my vision—
sunlight, like vision,
making clear the tiniest

hidden veins. I don't know why
I should be here, alive

and having to see this, this bright thing
living in time

or have to see it later, at the end
of the afternoon, when the sun's

lower, its light diagonal across the pot,
its light then pulling away
across the mossed brick

like a wave, only slower,
slower. The blossom is still pink,
but no longer

brilliant. I'll go back
into the kitchen. But you, are you stronger than I? Can you
stay in love with it? Make promises,

marry it? Are you so sure
of your position in the world?

poem by Kate Northrop
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It makes no difference abroad

620

It makes no difference abroad—
The Seasons—fit—the same—
The Mornings blossom into Noons—
And split their Pods of Flame—

Wild flowers—kindle in the Woods—
The Brooks slam—all the Day—
No Black bird bates his Banjo—
For passing Calvary—

Auto da Fe—and Judgment—
Are nothing to the Bee—
His separation from His Rose—
To Him—sums Misery—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Winters are so short

403

The Winters are so short—
I'm hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away—
And moving into Pod—

Myself—for scarcely settled—
The Phoebes have begun—
And then—it's time to strike my Tent—
And open House—again—

It's mostly, interruptions—
My Summer—is despoiled—
Because there was a Winter—once—
And al the Cattle—starved—

And so there was a Deluge—
And swept the World away—
But Ararat's a Legend—now—
And no one credits Noah—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I envy Seas, whereon He rides

498

I envy Seas, whereon He rides—
I envy Spokes of Wheels
Of Chariots, that Him convey—
I envy Crooked Hills

That gaze upon His journey—
How easy All can see
What is forbidden utterly
As Heaven—unto me!

I envy Nests of Sparrows—
That dot His distant Eaves—
The wealthy Fly, upon His Pane—
The happy—happy Leaves—

That just abroad His Window
Have Summer's leave to play—
The Ear Rings of Pizarro
Could not obtain for me—

I envy Light—that wakes Him—
And Bells—that boldly ring
To tell Him it is Noon, abroad—
Myself—be Noon to Him—

Yet interdict—my Blossom—
And abrogate—my Bee—
Lest Noon in Everlasting Night—
Drop Gabriel—and Me—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I dreaded that first Robin, so

348

I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I'm accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—

I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—

I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—

I wished the Grass would hurry—
So—when 'twas time to see—
He'd be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch—to look at me—

I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they'd stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?

They're here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—

Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Birds reported from the South

743

The Birds reported from the South—
A News express to Me—
A spicy Charge, My little Posts—
But I am deaf—Today—

The Flowers—appealed—a timid Throng—
I reinforced the Door—
Go blossom for the Bees—I said—
And trouble Me—no More—

The Summer Grace, for Notice strove—
Remote—Her best Array—
The Heart—to stimulate the Eye
Refused too utterly—

At length, a Mourner, like Myself,
She drew away austere—
Her frosts to ponder—then it was
I recollected Her—

She suffered Me, for I had mourned—
I offered Her no word—
My Witness—was the Crape I bore—
Her—Witness—was Her Dead—

Thenceforward—We—t ogether dwelt—
I never questioned Her—
Our Contract
A Wiser Sympathy

poem by Emily Dickinson
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A Murmur in the Trees—to note

416

A Murmur in the Trees—to note—
Not loud enough—for Wind—
A Star—not far enough to seek—
Nor near enough—to find—

A long—long Yellow—on the Lawn—
A Hubbub—as of feet—
Not audible—as Ours—to Us—
But dapperer—More Sweet—

A Hurrying Home of little Men
To Houses unperceived—
All this—and more—if I should tell—
Would never be believed—

Of Robins in the Trundle bed
How many I espy
Whose Nightgowns could not hide the Wings—
Although I heard them try—

But then I promised ne'er to tell—
How could I break My Word?
So go your Way—and I'll go Mine—
No fear you'll miss the Road.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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You know that Portrait in the Moon

504

You know that Portrait in the Moon—
So tell me who 'tis like—
The very Brow—the stooping eyes—
A fog for—Say—Whose Sake?

The very Pattern of the Cheek—
It varies—in the Chin—
But—Ishmael—since we met—'tis long—
And fashions—intervene—

When Moon's at full—'Tis Thou—I say—
My lips just hold the name—
When crescent—Thou art worn—I note—
But—there—the Golden Same—

And when—Some Night—Bold—slashing Clouds
Cut Thee away from Me—
That's easier—than the other film
That glazes Holiday—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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He gave away his Life

567

He gave away his Life—
To Us—Gigantic Sum—
A trifle—in his own esteem—
But magnified—by Fame—

Until it burst the Hearts
That fancied they could hold—
When swift it slipped its limit—
And on the Heavens—unrolled—

'Tis Ours—to wince—and weep—
And wonder—and decay
By Blossoms gradual process—
He chose—Maturity—

And quickening—as we sowed—
Just obviated Bud—
And when We turned to note the Growth—
Broke—perfect—from the Pod—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Love—thou art high

453

Love—thou art high—
I cannot climb thee—
But, were it Two—
Who know but we—
Taking turns—at the Chimborazo—
Ducal—at last—stand up by thee—

Love—thou are deep—
I cannot cross thee—
But, were there Two
Instead of One—
Rower, and Yacht—some sovereign Summer—
Who knows—but we'd reach the Sun?

Love—thou are Veiled—
A few—behold thee—
Smile—and alter—and prattle—and die—
Bliss—were an Oddity—without thee—
Nicknamed by God—
Eternity—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I was the slightest in the House

486

I was the slightest in the House—
I took the smallest Room—
At night, my little Lamp, and Book—
And one Geranium—

So stationed I could catch the Mint
That never ceased to fall—
And just my Basket—
Let me think—I'm sure—
That this was all—

I never spoke—unless addressed—
And then, 'twas brief and low—
I could not bear to live—aloud—
The Racket shamed me so—

And if it had not been so far—
And any one I knew
Were going—I had often thought
How noteless—I could die—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Again—his voice is at the door

663

Again—his voice is at the door—
I feel the old Degree—
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—

I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify—
He never saw me—in this life—
I might surprise his eye!

I cross the Hall with mingled steps—
I—silent—pass the door—
I look on all this world contains—
Just his face—nothing more!

We talk in careless—and it toss—
A kind of plummet strain—
Each—sounding—shyly& mdash;
Just—how—deep—
The other's one—had been—

We walk—I leave my Dog—at home—
A tender—thoughtful Moon—
Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone—

Alone—if Angels are "alone"—
First time they try the sky!
Alone—if those "veiled faces"—be—
We cannot count—on High!

I'd give—to live that hour—again—
The purple—in my Vein—
But He must count the drops—himself—
My price for every stain!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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If I'm lost—now

256

If I'm lost—now
That I was found—
Shall still my transport be—
That once—on me—those Jasper Gates
Blazed open—suddenly—

That in my awkward—gazing—face—
The Angels—softly peered—
And touched me with their fleeces,
Almost as if they cared—
I'm banished—now—you know it—
How foreign that can be—
You'll know—Sir—when the Savior's face
Turns so—away from you—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Unit, like Death, for Whom?

408

Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
Told to Him—
The Grave is strict—
Tickets admit
Just two—the Bearer—
And the Borne—
And seat—just One—
The Living—tell—
The Dying—but a Syllable—
The Coy Dead—None—
No Chatter—here—no tea—
So Babbler, and Bohea—stay there—
But Gravity—and Expectation—and Fear—
A tremor just, that All's not sure.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Tis not that Dying hurts us so

335

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so—
'Tis Living—hurts us more—
But Dying—is a different way—
A Kind behind the Door—

The Southern Custom—of the Bird—
That ere the Frosts are due—
Accepts a better Latitude—
We—are the Birds—that stay.

The Shrivers round Farmers' doors—
For whose reluctant Crumb—
We stipulate—till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Court is far away

235

The Court is far away—
No Umpire—have I—
My Sovereign is offended—
To gain his grace—I'd die!

I'll seek his royal feet—
I'll say—Remember—King—
Thou shalt—thyself—one day—a Child—
Implore a larger—thing—

That Empire—is of Czars—
As small—they say—as I—
Grant me—that day—the royalty—
To intercede—for Thee—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered

523

Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered
Every time—for Two—
So that the Sum be never hindered
Through Decay of You—

Say if I erred? Accuse my Farthings—
Blame the little Hand
Happy it be for You—a Beggar's—
Seeking More—to spend—

Just to be Rich—to waste my Guineas
On so Best a Heart—
Just to be Poor—for Barefoot Vision
You—Sweet—Shut me out—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I think just how my shape will rise

237

I think just how my shape will rise—
When I shall be "forgiven"—
Till Hair—and Eyes—and timid Head—
Are out of sight—in Heaven—

I think just how my lips will weigh—
With shapeless—quivering—prayer—
That you—so late—"Consider" me—
The "Sparrow" of your Care—

I mind me that of Anguish—sent—
Some drifts were moved away—
Before my simple bosom—broke—
And why not this—if they?

And so I con that thing—"forgiven"—
Until& mdash;delirious—borne—
By my long bright—and longer—trust—
I drop my Heart—unshriven!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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It would have starved a Gnat

612

It would have starved a Gnat—
To live so small as I—
And yet I was a living Child—
With Food's necessity

Upon me—like a Claw—
I could no more remove
Than I could coax a Leech away—
Or make a Dragon—move—

Not like the Gnat—had I—
The privilege to fly
And seek a Dinner for myself—
How mightier He—than I—

Nor like Himself—the Art
Upon the Window Pane
To gad my little Being out—
And not begin—again—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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When we stand on the tops of Things

242

When we stand on the tops of Things—
And like the Trees, look down—
The smoke all cleared away from it—
And Mirrors on the scene—

Just laying light—no soul will wink
Except it have the flaw—
The Sound ones, like the Hills—shall stand—
No Lighting, scares away—

The Perfect, nowhere be afraid—
They bear their dauntless Heads,
Where others, dare not go at Noon,
Protected by their deeds—

The Stars dare shine occasionally
Upon a spotted World—
And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,
As if an Axle, held—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I had no Cause to be awake

542

I had no Cause to be awake—
My Best—was gone to sleep—
And Morn a new politeness took—
And failed to wake them up—

But called the others—clear—
And passed their Curtains by—
Sweet Morning—when I oversleep—
Knock—Recollect—to Me—

I looked at Sunrise—Once—
And then I looked at Them—
And wishfulness in me arose—
For Circumstance the same—

'Twas such an Ample Peace—
It could not hold a Sigh—
'Twas Sabbath—with the Bells divorced—
'Twas Sunset—all the Day—

So choosing but a Gown—
And taking but a Prayer—
The only Raiment I should need—
I struggled—and was There—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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